Deadly Treasures

by Vivian Conroy

  ‘He stole it?’ Ms Anderson asked.

  Alkmene shook her head. ‘No, the real clue for me was in something else. Page said Aldridge was there with two of his hunting companions. Now as a hunter you know the area like the back of your hand. You’re familiar with every hiding place; you know how to get around without being spotted. Aldridge was also raised here so he knows the tales of the treasure. He doesn’t like outsiders or rich people who believe they can get away with things. Duncan came and began to dig. Aldridge didn’t like it, but hey, others looked for the treasure and never found it, so how different could this arrogant viscount’s son be? Aldridge did keep an eye on things, did go to the dig with tales of nature having to be preserved. Badger burrows and all that.’

  Alkmene grimaced. ‘Then he faced a setback. There was talk of a find, a bracelet. If it was really something, the area would soon be swarming with treasure hunters. More outsiders coming to dig up and take away what should rightfully belong to the locals. Aldridge couldn’t believe it. For him it was more than just a sense of being robbed of his heritage. He was also caught up in a long-term vendetta with the clerks from the town hall, especially Page. Page told Jake and me that there had been friction over everything, the coppers feeling they were underpaid, the clerks and mayor claiming they were not being taken seriously in their attempts to end poaching. Aldridge and his colleagues were protecting the poachers because they were hunters themselves and didn’t tolerate a couple of clerks, indoor people as they saw it, telling them how to live on their land.’

  Old Paul nodded. ‘You read them right.’

  Alkmene smiled. ‘So Aldridge and Page have been life-long rivals. Aldridge had believed he had gained the upper hand when the town hall was closed down and the new mayor settled elsewhere. Sure, Page was still there, doing his thing, continuing his old life, but it was a charade. Aldridge still had his badge, his authority, his standing in town. That was, until word got out about the bracelet. Aldridge and his men had always claimed there was no treasure. Page and his colleagues claimed there was. Page was still trying to prove his point, using his time at the old town hall to go through documents, maps and books, trying to locate the treasure. With a bracelet found, Aldridge realized Page would be gloating. His point would be proven. Aldridge suddenly had to face the possibility that he would lose face in front of Page. He couldn’t believe it. He could certainly not accept it.’

  Alkmene took a breath. ‘Aldridge wanted to see the find for himself. Maybe it was not old enough? Maybe his humiliation could be avoided. But before he could have a look at it, at the inn that night, it was stolen. Goodman needed it to prove to his patron, Trevor Price, that there really was a treasure and they should take it before Duncan could.’

  Just as she had promised Miles, she was not revealing he had taken it. Old Paul and anybody else who would hear this tale in days to come would assume Goodman had taken it as it had been on his person when the murderer had killed him.

  She continued, ‘Goodman was out for revenge on Duncan, and the treasure was just a means to get it. Aldridge realized that, and he played into Goodman’s greed by inviting him to a meeting place where he would get more items and information about the gold. He knew that Goodman had met people in the fields before because Goodman had asked him for directions to a certain spot. Who better to ask for such directions than the local policeman who was also a hunter and a child of this wild craggy land?’

  Jake continued, ‘Aldridge met Goodman in that same spot and killed him by bashing his skull in with his baton. He then cleaned it of blood, moved the body to the nearby site, got blood on the hammer that Duncan always used. As a policeman he knew his bit about how an investigation would play out. How evidence would be gathered and the net would close itself around Duncan Woolsbury. Best of all, Aldridge knew he would be present at all times to manipulate the evidence if he had to. He could point the finger at Duncan, but he could also shift the blame if necessary, to incriminate others. He was sure that he would always be one step ahead, for he had the power to make an arrest. And as he was present at the police station as soon as such an arrest was made, he could also keep anyone who came to help – like Alkmene when she came to call upon Duncan – away from the arrested suspect. He believed he could manipulate it all.’

  Alkmene took over again. ‘Until Inspector Coones showed up. Aldridge had not bet on Scotland Yard taking an interest in the case. They might ask difficult questions, cornering him. And Eddy was always there, shooting his mouth off about things. Eddy had told me about the missing bicycle that belonged to Ms Rivers, the one Aldridge used to get around. Eddy had also revealed Aldridge had searched the dead man’s pockets. A harmless enough action for a policeman on duty of course, but still.

  ‘If Eddy made a few remarks to Coones, things might heat up. But to Aldridge’s relief Coones had already made his own arrest, the chauffeur Kramer, who could be a perfect scapegoat in Duncan’s stead. Aldridge could easily provide incriminating evidence against Kramer if he had to, claiming he had seen him spying on the dig before. His testimony would be weighed heavily. Either way the dig might never be completed without proof that something could be found there. Aldridge had that proof and didn’t intend to turn it in again. The bracelet was worth everything to him, not for the monetary value of it, but to ensure Page would never triumph over him.’

  Old Paul shook his head. ‘Sad when a man of the law turns to crime and murder of all things. For old rivalry that nobody ever took seriously.’

  Alkmene said, ‘It was serious to Aldridge. Deadly serious.’

  Ms Anderson sat with that silent smile on her face as if she was in another place completely. Alkmene hoped that Kramer was being released as they were speaking. She bet he’d be on his way out here first thing to see his beloved and her children. He’d make a good father for them, especially if they had means to buy a nice house with a garden for her to putter in. She and her mother, Alkmene believed, would have the gift of growing pretty flowers and delicious fruit. Stupid Peartree, who had called Old Paul’s wife weird. He had been so totally mistaken. The world needed more people like her. Simply kind and good and happy with whatever they had.

  Jake emptied his glass and rose. ‘We just wanted to tell you how things went down. Not to worry any more for past accusations but look ahead to a brighter future.’

  Ms Anderson let them out of the door. She shook Alkmene’s hand. ‘I'm so happy now.’

  ‘Kramer will be out here first thing after his release, I bet. You stay happy now. Good luck.’

  The door closed, and Alkmene and Jake stood in the semi-darkness, walking away from the farm to their car.

  Alkmene sighed. ‘People believed that the lovers in this tale were Duncan and the innkeeper’s daughter Sarah, but it was Kramer and his widow. I guess Aldridge wrote the note to Lady Eleanor hoping Duncan would have to leave prematurely. It is too bad it was not tied in with the London blackmailer. We still have no idea who he or she is.’

  ‘Or why Duncan quarrelled with Goodman the night before Goodman died.’ Jake glanced at her. ‘He said it was a personal matter and he managed to keep it personal to this very end. Not even the noose hanging over his head could make him reveal it. Did you ever think for a moment he might have been guilty after all?’

  ‘I just didn’t want to. His mother, despite her overbearing tendencies, is just too nice, not to mention his sisters.’ Alkmene grinned at him. ‘Now that I’ve saved dear Duncan for them, I dare say they could offer me something. Like a nice little trip to Europe?’

  ‘I’m thinking something else.’

  ‘What?’ Alkmene asked, suspicious of Jake’s tone and smug smile.

  ‘A nice little trip to the altar. What better way to thank you for your efforts than make you a member of the family?’

  Alkmene scoffed. ‘I used to beat Duncan on the shins with a cricket bat. I don’t think he has quite forgotten that yet.’

  They got into the car an
d drove away from the farmstead that stayed behind like a huddled shadow with a twinkling little light of the lit kitchen window.

  Jake said, ‘Will you stick around to watch Duncan dig some more?’

  ‘Actually your idea of the way his family might want to thank me has just convinced me I’d better move on as soon as possible. To be honest, I was a bit disappointed by this assignment from the start. No pyramids, no pharaonic masks, you know, no riches untold. Next time I visit a dig it had better be somewhere exotic and exciting.’

  Jake grinned at her. ‘I’ll ask around for a chance. You have enough experience now.’

  Alkmene frowned. ‘With digging? I never touched a spade.’

  Jake threw his head back and laughed. ‘With murder, I mean. Don’t tell me you’d want to visit a dig without a dead body involved.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Alkmene said, leaning her head snugly against the headrest, ‘the only dead bodies I want to find at a dig are those that have already been there so long there is nothing left of them but dry bones. I used to say that such a thing was quite boring, but I’ve changed my mind. I’ll be perfectly happy with…’

  She blinked, her head slipping to the side. ‘With…something dull for a change.’

  Jake’s voice resounded from somewhere far away as she drifted off into sleep. ‘At your service, my lady.’

  Can’t wait for more from Lady Alkmene and Jake Dubois in 2017? Then turn the page to read an excerpt from their first case:

  A PROPOSAL TO DIE FOR

  Chapter One

  ‘Marry me.’

  The whispered words reached Lady Alkmene Callender’s ears just as she was reaching for the gold lighter on the mantelpiece to relight the cigarette in her ivory holder.

  Freddie used to be a dear and bring her Turkish ones, but since he had been disinherited by his father for his gambling debts, his opportunities to travel had been significantly reduced, as had Alkmene’s stash of cigarettes. These ones, obtained from a tobacconist on Callenburg Square, had the taste of propriety about them that made them decidedly less appetizing than the exotic ones she had to hide from her housekeeper – who always complained the lace curtains got yellowish from the smoke.

  ‘Marry me,’ the insistent voice repeated, and Alkmene’s gaze wandered from the mirror over the mantelpiece to the table with drinks beside it.

  Behind that table was a screen of Chinese silk, decorated with tiny figures tiptoeing over bridges between temples and blossoming cherry trees.

  The voice seemed to emerge from behind the screen.

  Another voice replied, in an almost callous tone, ‘You know I cannot. The old man would die of apoplexy.’

  ‘Not that he doesn’t deserve it. If he died, you’d inherit his entire fortune and we could elope.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Gretna Green, I suppose. Where else does one elope to?’

  Alkmene decided on the spot that the male speaker had a lack of fantasy, which would make him unsuitable for her adventurous mind. If you did elope, you’d better do it the right way, boarding the Orient Express.

  ‘I mean,’ the female said, in an impatient tone, ‘where would we live, how would we live? Off my fortune I suppose? I don’t think the major would give me a dime.’

  ‘What has the major got to do with it? Once the old man is dead and we are married, the money is yours.’

  There was a particular interest in money in this young man’s approach that was disconcerting, Alkmene decided, but if the female on the other side of the Chinese silk didn’t notice or care, it was none of her business.

  ‘Alkmene, dushka…’

  Alkmene turned on her heel to find the countess of Veveine smiling up at her from under too much make-up. The tiny Russian princess, who had married down to be with the love of her life, wore a striking dark green gown with a waterfall of diamonds around her neck. Matching earrings almost hung to her shoulders, and a tiara graced her silver hair. ‘I had expected to see you at the theatre last week. Everybody who is somebody was there.’

  ‘I was…’ reading up on the fastest-working exotic poisons ‘…detained unfortunately. But I trust you had a pleasant night?’

  ‘The new baritone from Greece was a revelation.’ The tiny woman winked. ‘You should meet him some time. Just the right height for you. Never marry a man who is shorter. You will always have to look down on him, and it is never wise to marry a man on whom one must look down.’

  Alkmene returned her smile. ‘I will remember that.’

  She heard a light scratch of wood and turned her head to see a young woman adjusting the Chinese screen. She wore a bright blue dress and matching diadem, her platinum blonde hair shining under the light of the chandelier.

  She looked up and caught Alkmene’s eye. ‘The thing always tips over to the side. Would crash the table and destroy all of those marvellous crystal glasses.’

  She had a heavy American accent, but Alkmene recognized her voice anyway. It was the woman who had moments ago been discussing her marital prospects and a possible elopement with a man behind the screen. Her accent had been a lot less obvious then. But her reference to the major not giving her ‘a dime’ did suggest she was American.

  Intrigued, Alkmene came over and said, ‘Let me give you a hand with that. It is huge.’

  She glanced behind the screen, but there was nothing to be seen. Nobody – hardly room enough for two persons to stand. If she wasn’t perfectly sure she had heard the conspiring voices, she’d have deemed it impossible.

  She pretended to test the screen’s stability by grabbing the top and pulling at it. ‘It seems solid enough to me.’

  The young lady smiled at her. ‘Why, thank you, much obliged. A drink perhaps?’ She had already gestured to a waiter to bring them fresh glasses of champagne.

  Outside a car horn honked, and someone lifted the curtain to look out and see who was arriving so late to the party. Alkmene didn’t have to look to know. Self-made millionaire Buck Seaton liked to be noticed wherever he arrived. No doubt upon his entrance he’d be hollering about a terrible traffic jam in Piccadilly, to make sure he could spend the next hour talking about his new automobile. It would probably be American, like this young lady by her side.

  As the blonde handed her a glass of bubbles, Alkmene said, ‘How do you like London? Have you been here long?’

  ‘Just a few weeks.’ The blonde took a sip of her champagne, careful not to smudge her bright red lipstick. The colour might be cheap on another, but with her it underlined her stark classic beauty. As of a silver screen icon.

  Alkmene said, ‘There is a wonderful exhibition right now in a renowned art gallery on Regent Street.’

  ‘I’ve already been there,’ the blonde said with a weak smile. ‘My uncle is an admirer of art. Sculptures, paintings. He even said he might hire someone to have my portrait done. A bit old-fashioned if you ask me. I’d rather have him hire me a star photographer. In the time I’d have to sit still for a portrait he could have taken my picture a hundred times. And not in front of some dull old bookcase either, but balancing on the railing of London Bridge.’

  At Alkmene’s stunned expression the other woman burst into heartfelt laughter.

  There was commotion at the door as Buck Seaton emerged, still wearing the preposterous goggles he always used when driving an open automobile. Pulling them off, he stretched his already impressive height to look around the room and spotted the blonde. ‘Evelyn!’ He waved the goggles in the air.

  The blonde’s face lit at once, and she took a hurried leave, readjusting her long gloves as she made her way over to the millionaire. He leaned over confidently, kissing her on the cheek and speaking to her in an urgent manner.

  ‘I saw her last week at the theatre,’ the countess said in a pensive tone. ‘She was with a much older man.’

  ‘Must be the uncle she just mentioned to me,’ Alkmene said. ‘The art lover. You did not know him?’


  The countess shook her head. ‘He has never been introduced to me. I actually thought they must both have been new to London for I had never seen either of them before and I do see people everywhere, you know. It was very odd. They came when the performance had already begun and they left during the break.’

  ‘Maybe they just didn’t like the singing,’ Alkmene concluded.

  The countess shook her head. ‘It was not the performance. I think there was an argument in their box. A young man arrived, and there was a heated discussion.’

  Ah. The countess had been training her opera glasses on the other boxes instead of on the stage. Alkmene also found it difficult to concentrate on sung love triangles for long stretches, even if the baritone was a tall dark Greek. ‘This young man, can he have been her fiancé or something?’ She was still curious about the man who had been with the blonde behind the Chinese screen just now.

  Elopement rather suggested the relationship was illicit, but who knew, he might be a long-suffering fiancé who finally wanted to marry the girl and be done with it.

  The countess’s fine brows drew together in concentration. ‘I do not think so. The old man seemed very surprised to see him – and upset. I think almost…startled. Like he had seen a man returned from the dead.’

  Alkmene hitched a brow. ‘Returned from the dead? You mean, like he didn’t want to meet him?’

  ‘No, literally.’ The countess waved a breakable hand covered with a thin web of green veins. ‘Like he had seen someone whom he believed to be dead and all of a sudden he was there, in his life again. Making demands on him.’

  Alkmene pursed her lips. ‘That sounds rather intriguing. I wish I had been there, and could have seen them for myself.’ Their gestures during the argument, or just the clothes of the unexpected arrival, could have told her so much. Leaning over eagerly, she asked, ‘This man returned from the dead, was he a gentleman, well dressed, in place there, or rather different? A foreigner perhaps?’